A Deadwood Story -- Plain Jane, part two

~~~

Without a word Dio rose from her seat at the 10’s lone table where she sat with JJ and some of the other raconteurs. Malachi--an older colored miner who worked on the side now and then as a bartender for Dio--was on duty that day, and he reached under the bar to pull out the canvas haversack which held her medical gear. He tossed it to her as she strode past. JJ Drinkwater suddenly found himself sitting in an empty saloon as everyone present had quickly followed in Dio’s wake. He looked around for a moment, and then realizing he was missing an opportunity to be a first-hand witness to the brutal nature of life on the frontier, he rose and went to see if he could find the scene of the shooting.

It wasn’t all that hard. A considerable crowd had gathered around the dance hall, which prominently featured its name, the “Bonanza” painted in large white letters on its false front. He pushed through the ring of onlookers to see his new acquaintance, Mrs. Kuhr, kneeling over the body of a man who lay in the street. She was evidently feeling for a pule on the victim’s neck. Next to her stood a stocky, heavily-muscled young man with tired face and short-cropped hair. Pinned to his expensive-lookin’ waistcoat was a star-shaped badge. He did not look like he was happiest man in the world at the moment.

Dio looked up at the young lawman and shook her head. He nodded and then turned towards the open door of shabby dance hall, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“Goddammit Shortribs!” bellowed the deputy, “The stupid sonofabitch has gone ‘n fuckin’ died! Now come on out and let’s get this over with...”

An angry voice replied from the depths of the Bonanza, “Sweet Mother o’ Christ, Badger! What manner o’ fuckin’ damn fool do ya take me for? Twas a damned accident I hit that wretched greenhorn! Was tryin’ to shoot Dirty Jon Swenson, cuz he drew on me an’ shot first!”

Another voice--undoubtedly that of Mr. Svenson, and obviously drunk--enthusiastically chimed in from the dance hall’s interior, “Aye, Badger, thas’ right! Me ‘n Shorty was shootin’...but I ain’t mad no more...din’t mean for no one to go get shot...you ain’t gonna try to hang good ol’ Shorty, are ye?”

The deputy spat on the street. “Jeezus fuckin’ Christ, Swenson! Ya goddam drunken witless oaf! That ain’t for me to say...judge has to deal with that...but I gotta bring both o’ you silly bastards in for all o’ this!”

The crowd went dead silent as a man appeared in the doorway. JJ assumed this must be the one called “Shortribs” due to his diminutive stature. Although the writer’s powers of observation were somewhat slowed due to his consumption of substantial quantifies of excellent lager beer during the conversation at the 10, he did focus on an important detail: Mr. Shortribs had his gun drawn. To further complicate the situation, in a blink of an eye, with a rapidity that even in his somewhat befuzzled state JJ found quite impressive, the deputy--whose name was evidently Badger--had drawn his own weapon and had it pointed at the small man in the door of the dance hall.

Suddenly, JJ Drinkwater was starkly aware that the entire crowd of onlookers had evaporated as if by magic. The only ones besides himself who were still present were Badger and Shortribs--both still holding their guns on one another--along with Dio and the dead man. JJ then also noticed there was a tall, shapely blond woman, dressed in men’s clothing and wearing several guns, who was causally leaning against a porch post not twenty feet away, watching the proceedings with a studied indifference. Otherwise, the vicinity was utterly deserted.

“You ain’t takin’ me in, Badger. Twas a accident,” hissed the short man.

“Goddamit Shortribs,” replied Badger, “That man there is deader’n hell’s breakfast. Can you get that through your thick little skull? I can’t let ya walk away from this...”

JJ wondered how this was going to turn out. Neither man apparently really wanted to shoot--otherwise they would have already started pulling triggers--but neither was apparently willing to back down. Then JJ noticed Dio very slowly getting up from her kneeling position next to the body. In a deliberate, almost stately fashion she casually strolled over and placed herself directly in between the two men with the drawn firearms.

When she spoke her voice was eerily gentle and calm.

“Come on boys. This ain’t makin’ no sense. Shorty, if ye go quiet-like, ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to ye. Ye said yerself, ye drew in self defense, an’ Dirty Jon admits it...he shot first. The feller ye hit--twas a accident. They ain’t gonna hang ye fer that. An’ Dirty Jon, he’ll probbly only do a lil’ time fer drawin’ on ye an’ tryin’ to kill ye...hell, folks do that alla time, an' it sounds like he’s sorry. Ye are sorry, ain’t ye Jon?”

“YES MA’AM!” came the cheerful inebriated reply from inside the Bonanza. “Damnably sorry ‘n regretful!”

“Now look, Shorty,” Dio continued, “yeah, ye kin try to shoot it out with Badger, and ye might get kilt, or ye might kill him. But if’n ye do kill him, law won’t ever let ye alone. They’ll hunt ye down like a goddam rabid dog, once ye’ve taken the life of a lawman.”

She turned to the deputy.

“Badger, pard, listen...tis best we try to work this out peaceable--if’n ye have to kill Shorty tryin’ to take ‘im, well, shitfire, ye know the man has a great many friends in this sorry lil’ town. Some of ‘em would mos’ likely come gunnin’ for ye as a consequence, an’ then things would jus' get real goddam complicated. How about ye promise Shorty he’s gonna get a fair trial--then I shall count to three, an both o' y’all just reholster on three.“

Badger looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded.

“Allright, Shortribs--ya got my word...fair trial...all on the up and up. I will put away my gun when Dio counts to three, if you will...”

There was a pause. Finally the short man answered. “I’m agreeable.”

Dio slowly counted to three and the men cautiously reholstered their weapons. It was simple after that: Badger did not even bother to put handcuffs on Shorty, though he told him he would have to take his weapon when they got to the jail. Taking Swenson in proved simple as well, as in his drunken state he insisted that he would happily accompany Shortribs, in order to keep him company. Dirty Jon was at that stage of inebriation where he was rather comically declaring his undying friendship for the little man, and repeatedly expressed his sincere regret for having tried to kill him.

Before Badger led them off to the calaboose, Dio gently laid a hand on Shorty’s shoulder.

“Thank ye fer bein’ reasonable. So what was it...arguin’ o’er a gal?”

Shortribs laughed sardonically, “Ain’t it always gonna be about a woman?”

Dio sighed. “Goddam good thing ol’ Dirty Jon is such a piss-poor shot.”

The little man grinned a bit. “Don’t hurt that I’m a turrible target, as well...”

Dio chuckled and then turned to wave at the tall young woman leaning against the porch post. The well-armed blond nodded and ambled off down the street. Meanwhile, JJ Drinkwater had come up to stand next to Dio as she repacked her medical bag. Some of the men who had disappeared when the guns had been drawn were slowly reappearing, and Dio asked them to fetch a cart and take the dead man to Mr. Sorrowman’s.

Finally JJ spoke,

“Miss Dio...that was quite remarkable...and...well...standing in between two men with drawn firearms like that to stop them from....I must say, I’m just...”

Dio interrupted him. “Aw hell’s britches JJ! Twarn’t no dreadful great act o’ bravery or nothin’...I figgerd they din’t really want to shoot or git shot o’er such foolishness...an’ ‘sides..that tall gal who was o’er yonder...she had m’ back...if’n one of ‘em had showed signs o’ makin’ a move to actually fire, she’d a had iron out faster than ye can say grandma’s knickers and ventilated ‘em.”

A look of comprehension suddenly passed over the writer’s face. “Oh my word..was that..was that the female scout known as Calamity Jane? I have read about her in some publications..there’s this guide to the Black Hills that a gentleman named Horatio Maguire has written...and tales I heard in Sidney, but really didn’t give much credence to...”

Dio shook her head and laughed. “Oh satan’s whiskers, JJ! In the name Jeezus an his happy horn-blowin’ angels, don’t EVER say such a thing to that gal’s face. That ain’t Martha Canary--that’s Roku Hallard--she’s a sometime security guard and sometime courtesan, an’ a good friend o’ mine...an’ she would take great offense at bein’ mistaken fer such a creature as Calamity Jane. You go ‘n ask her if’n she’s that person, an’ she mos’ likely would rip yer arm clean outta its socket, an’ then wallop ye o’er the head with the damned thing to chastise ye fer insultin’ her so.”

JJ Drinkwater looked puzzled.

“Would ye care to meet the actual Calamity Jane?” asked Dio. “Come on then..she’s more’n likely right there in the Bonanza. She works pretty regular as a dance hall gal, among other things.”

Dio walked over to the door of the dance hall and peered in. “Hey Sam!” she called out. “Is Martha in there?”

Whoever Sam was, he replied in the affirmative and Dio gestured for JJ to follow her into the dim interior of the Bonanza. She led him back to a table at the rear of the hall, where a slightly-built woman in a stained and mended dress was slumped over, apparently passed out from a session of personal interaction with a bottle of red eye that stood nearly empty by her elbow.

Dio grasped a handful of the short greasy hair on the back of the woman’s head and lifted it so JJ could see her plain, worn face.

“Mr. JJ Drinkwater, may I present to ye Miss Martha Canary, alias Calamity Jane,” said Dio in a very formal tone.

She then let go of the woman’s hair allowing her head to slump back on to the table top with a dull “thunk.” Dio noticed the look of consternation and disappointment that marked the writer’s face.

“Sometimes feet o’ clay extend all the way up t’ the neck,” she commented dryly.

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part one

~~~

You know, to read some of the various accounts of life in the Black Hills during the Gold Rush back in the seventies, you would think that the only women present were either dissolute members of the demi-monde, or the occasional starched and proper lady, struggling to impose some element of civilization upon the situation.

Of course, truth is, it weren’t that simple. Truth never is.

In fact, there was actually a considerable variety of women of all classes, dispositions, and degrees of moral turpitude present in 1876 to ’77. Certainly they were greatly outnumbered by the men folk, but they were there nonetheless--hardworking laundresses and cooks, sturdy and capable farm-wives who followed the men who followed their dreams of golden wealth, and even more than a few enterprising businesswomen--as well as the numerous chippies and dance-hall gals, and the very occasional proper lady or two. And if you really want to get at the quartz-bearing, bed-rock, honest-to-Peter reality of it, in those days it was actually pretty challenging to fit a great many of the Black Hills women-folk into one hard-and-fast category or another.

Nossir, finding truth of any kind is not a simple thing.

The difficulty of sorting out truth and myth of the Gold Rush days did not stop many writers and journalists from being drawn to the Dakota Territory at the time, lookin’ for a good story. But then after all, most of those scribblers only had at best a nodding acquaintance with truth. And more than a few of them were downright strangers to the concept. Even so, there were a handful who had more than a a passing interest in uncovering good tales that also had the benefit of some foundation in reality.

Like there was this one gent named Drinkwater who came through Deadwood in the early part of ’77. Mr. Drinkwater stands out in memory as he was one of the few who actually expressed a genuine commitment to accuracy.

If you been there when J.J. Drinkwater got off the stage from Sidney and walked across the bridge into town, you would have seen a tall, thin fellah with small spectacles, a tad on into middling age and a bit balding on top in the back, but still attractive with sharp features and these piercing eyes that bespoke a curious mind and hard-edged intelligence of the sort that one don’t encounter all that often. He strolled down Main, his modest carpet bag in one hand and a leather dispatch pouch for the tools of his scribbler’s trade slung over his shoulder, surveying the bustle as he went. If you had encountered him on that day, you coulda told he was takin’ it all in, takin’ mental notes....makin’ no judgments as of yet, but still deeply engaged in the process of breathing in and absorbing all the clues and evidence and details that were laid out to be seen by those who, like Mr. Drinkwater, had a desire to actually look for ‘em.

He stopped in front of the Saloon No. 10. A woman, probably in her 40s, was busily engaged in sweeping the porch. Drinkwater observed that she was eccentrically dressed by eastern standards, wearing a plain black wool skirt with an impeccably clean apron, a stylish man’s gray wool waistcoat with shining brass buttons, and beneath that, a red flannel workman’s shirt, buttoned to the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. The woman’s skirt was a little shorter than was normally considered acceptable by most proper ladies, ending slightly above the ankles--undoubtedly, thought Drinkwater, to keep the hem from trailing in the mud and appallingly diverse shit that made up the street surfaces in this town. The shorter length of the simple skirt revealed a pair of well-worn, tall-heeled, pointed-toe boots of the type favored by Texican cowhands. But most interesting of all from the writer’s perspective was what she wore around her waist: a sturdy leather belt with a large oval Confederate army “CS” buckle; and hanging from the belt, an immense holster that was weighted down with an equally massive revolver.

Mr. Drinkwater could not help thinking that clearly, he was not in Chicago anymore. He walked over and tipped his hat, smiling politely.

“Good day to you, madam.”

“Well, a good day to you as well, sir,” replied the woman, looking up from her sweeping with what Drinkwater found to be a surprisingly genuine and welcoming smile. He had gotten used to small town folk, especially on the flint-hard edge of the frontier, to often be somewhat taciturn or downright hostile in the presence of someone like himself who came across as a bit of a “dandy.”

“Might I enquire if this would be the same Number 10 saloon where James Butler Hickok was assassinated?

The woman’s friendly smile flickered and faded slightly, and her face took on an expression that was one of cool politeness.

“Yessir, indeed it is. But if yer wishin’ to gaze at the very chair he sat upon when he was shot, or the actual table stained with his gore, ye need go elsewhere--there are multiple examples o’ both available for viewing at a number o’ establishments in this town...an’ some other towns as well, unless I am very much mistaken.”

Drinkwater could tell this was not the first time--nor the fiftieth--that the woman had been asked this question. He sat down his carpet bag, took off his hat, and unapologetically looked her straight in the eye.

“No, madam. I assure you I have no desire to stand transfixed by artifacts of spurious provenance...nor even to look upon genuine mementos of the tragedy for that matter. I merely wished to study the site of the event, in order to gain some additional perspective on what actually transpired. Allow me to introduce myself: JJ Drinkwater, at your service. Forgive me if I came across as some mere tourist with a taste for the macabre and sensational--I am a writer, and my interest is the true and real stories of our western frontier.”

The woman’s expression softened slightly, but she apparently was still experiencing some uncertainty. Drinkwater felt like her gaze was giving him careful consideration...as if she was sizing him up, reading what was in his eyes as well as in his words. Suddenly she stuck out a brutally scarred, heavily calloused hand to shake.

“Pleased to meet ye. I’m the widow Kuhr, tho’ mos’ folks hereabouts call me Dio. Yer welcome to do so, if’n ye care to.”

The writer unhesitatingly took her hand and gave it a firm shake. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Miss Dio. I would be gratified if you would call me JJ. Might I ask who is the present owner of this establishment?”

Dio laughed. “Yer shakin’ paws with her, pard...I took it over sometime after the death o’ Mr. Hickok. Kin I interest ye in a mug o’ lager beer? Maybe some grub, bein’ as it looks as tho’ ye just got off’n the coach.”

JJ was more than happy to take advantage of her offer, and was again surprised when the woman refused payment for the first beer and the plate of hot venison stew she provided him. He went through a good many more beers in the course of the afternoon--all of which he paid for, along with rounds he bought for various and sundry locals who came by and joined in the conversation. Mrs. Kuhr and her customers went into considerable detail with him regarding what they knew about Wild Bill Hickok--often from first hand experience.

He was quietly thrilled to learn that his hostess had evidently come in on the same wagon train that had brought Hickok to Deadwood in July of ‘76. Yet she made no grand claims of close friendship with the man or personal involvement in any of his adventures--something that inclined JJ to give greater credence to what she told him. She’d had only a passing acquaintance with the famous gunfighter, and had some random observations to share regarding Wild Bill’s brief sojourn in the Black Hills, but her real value to Drinkwater’s research was in her running commentary on the stories that were told by others. She served as a well-grounded Greek chorus, either confirming the accuracy of certain tales, or lambasting the storytellers when they strayed from the truth as she understood it, often doing so with the aid of some extremely colorful vocabulary. She also spent some time explaining the changes she made to the interior of the Saloon No. 10, so that JJ could better picture in his mind how it appeared and functioned at the time of Hickok’s murder.

Suddenly, this pleasant and entertaining storytelling session was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from down the street. Moments later, there was sound of small feet pounding down the boards of the sidewalk and a small flaxen-haired girl, who looked to JJ to be about 10 or 11 years old, burst through the door of the saloon.

“Dio! They say you’re needed down at the Bonanza dance hall! Some man got shot and they can’t find Doc Morpork!

~~~